A few nights ago I experienced a dream that will perhaps always elude my interpretation. I believe every so often the soul cries out in extravagance for itself to hear, perhaps to recognize, as a symptom recognizes its cause somewhere in the subcutaneous realms. Dreams are symptoms in gorgeous color. They are perfect alone, with nothing extraneous, nothing frivolous. A feeling or fear or a shame becomes a diaphanous corporeality, a fast-fading memory that lives forever in the gut, but is annoyingly fleeting to consciousness. It becomes a god, an all-powerful entity to which the dreamer is subject. And then it vanishes, seemingly. And so it becomes the frustrating task of waking life to decipher the tangle of wild metaphor, a wilderness of turning away from the literal, as if a wild animal on the scent of able-bodied prey, in order to track down a semblance of what the message was. At best.
And so it went that I dreamed I was walking along a brilliant property of endless lawns with widespead perfect trees that was on the shore of the most wonderful lake. In the distance, on a little rise and to my right was an unassuming but perfectly lovely mansion. A female figure accompanied me. To our left a giant approached. An amazingly large man, sweating, with a kerchief around his neck, he stood apart from us with a shovel in his right hand. He seemed to know my companion. We agreed to follow him to the mansion. Except, of course, we did not. We turned left toward the direction from which he'd come. We followed his footsteps until we'd come to a small pond at the shore of the lake. On the far side of the pond, to the left, there was a bench and a blue statue of a man with long outspread arms who I understood to be Carl Jung. But our attention lay before us, in the silt beneath the shallow water along the shoreline. There, in perfect detail we saw the giant's footsteps going in our direction along with the much smaller footsteps of a girl. We saw the giant's footsteps going in the opposite direction too, back toward the mansion, but without the girl's. And then there, just on the other side of the pond there was freshly turned earth with some terrible linoleum laid on top. We dug frantically. A few feet down, covered in lime, was a young girl wrapped like a mummy. We turned and ran back toward the mansion and toward the giant who'd just seemed to realize we weren't behind him. He was furious, and the shovel in his right hand became an ax and he swung at us with a kind of cinematic ferocity.
And then, it was over. I was awake. In my bed. Turned toward the wall. Something had shifted for me. I don't know what to make of the dream, but I did feel as if it were my soul crying out to me. Me, the symptom? What have I become?
I had this word in my head reverberating, as if it was dew, as if it were engrained in me somewhere suddenly- Küsnacht.